


Serpensortia

by orphan_account



Series: The Serpent and the Lion [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood-centric, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Alec Lightwood, BAMF Magnus Bane, Good Slytherins, Gryffindor!Magnus, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt Alec Lightwood, Ilvermorny, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Original Character(s), Pukwudgie!Magnus, Slytherin Alec Lightwood, The Deathly Hallows, Unreliable Narrator, Wandless Magic, Wandlore (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16313525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see, and not a bad mind either. Fiercely loyal and protective of those you love, yes, indeed. You remind me of someone else, oh yes, quite similar the both of you are. There's talent and an enormous thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you?"Alec opens his eyes and diverts his gaze to the evergreen scenery whisking past his windows. In retrospect, the decision was quite obvious.In his seventh and final year as a student, Alec Lightwood returns to Hogwarts in the wake of his family's exposed involvement with the Circle, a fanatical group of pure-blood elitists responsible for the murders of innocent Muggleborns across Britain and the United States. With a dishonored family name and a tainted reputation, Alec vows to pursue whatever means are necessary to protect his siblings, and restore the honor and respectability of the Lightwood bloodline.At the same instance, a certain Muggleborn student from the Ilvermony School of Witchcraft and Wizardry transfers into the same year.





	1. The Curse of Antioch Peverell

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fanfic in the Shadowhunters fandom so please be gentle with me.

_"The first brother traveled to a distant village while with the Elder Wand in hand, he killed a wizard with whom he had once quarreled. Drunk with the power that the Elder Wand had given him, he bragged of his invincibility. But that night, another wizard stole the wand and slit the brother’s throat for good measure. And so Death took the first brother for his own."_  

\- The Tale of the Three Brothers

* * *

 

By the time he has reached his private compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express, the sliding door slid with a chilling hiss of finality. The hidden lock mechanism clicked and bit down, cutting him off from the rowdy and frenetic activity beyond the station. The dense glass of the windows insulated his solitude and cocooned him in a sense of warm isolation. In this little den, he was king and in control of his own affairs. In this little den of his own, he can take the time to allow his defenses to relax, even for just a little while, before he spends another school year away from the Lightwood Estates. Away from it all, away from the natural hellhole that his life has spiralled devolved to. The black hole that revealed itself to be seating at the heart of their family affairs, tarnishing the reputation of their pure-blood family.

Pure-blood supremacy and its innocent victims. Blood politics. The Circle, Valentine Morgenstern, and his parents' role in the bloody details of the Uprising. The thing that started it all. The thing that would naturally come back to haunt him when he will arrive on Hogwarts, a new school year changed for the worst. He could already predict the exact glint in their eyes when they would see him, the cold and cruel glint that only ever appears in the gaze of another human, when its appetite for avenging some deep-felt injustice overwhelms the shackles and chains on its primal nature.

Rumors have already abounded that a dark lord is surfacing, coming to haunt and chase down every last muggleborn. Over the past few weeks, a slew of Muggleborn killings had been reported all over wizarding society. The Ministry of Magic and MACUSA have gone on to high alert and have decided to join arms in their war against the beginnings of what could be the Third War. It was in a somber family dinner when the Lightwood patriarch fell over and collapsed on the ground, a heaving and writhing mass of agony. The Black Mark on his father's inner forearm, the Mark of the Circle, resurfaced with a vengeance. The skin at the edges of the Black Mark shimmered and blackened, as if the nerves suddenly perished at the strong presence of scorching magic. Not long after, his mother followed suit and it was an evening of agonizing revelations and shattered relationships.

It was a call to arms. There was no other way to mistake it. The Dark Lord has returned. And with it, the knowledge of the Lightwood family's involvement has come to light in the eyes of the public.

There would be no safe place, not even for him, in the Slytherin dungeons. For an entire year, his family would be at risk of being preyed on, ocstracised, exempted from every rule. As much as he would like to give credit to their own capacity to stand on their own two feet, as a big brother, as the eldest, he always knows that it can have the chance to go wrong. _Terribly_ wrong. He won't be there all the time to protect them, watch over them. Even then, he can't even guarantee them the comfort of his presence as the bloodthirsty crowds will start playing all sorts of psychological warfare, cursing them and hexing them. Oh, he can and will bloody try to protect them and fend them off. What he can't do is protect them from the words that would inevitably sear and scar their psychological wellbeings. He _hates_ not being able to do anything. Anything at all, to protect them.

Lightwoods may break noses and accept the damn consequences, but honestly, it is not a precursor that warrants impulsive actions and behaviors that can be thrown about on a whim. There comes a time and a crucial point where bravery is virtually indistinguishable from stupidity.

He numbly reminisces on the time when he foolishly wrote back in the first week after he was Sorted. Naively expecting some form of validation from his prim and proper parents, nothing could have prepared his younger self for the crushing blow of the austere response that came his way when Percival, his own tawny owl, came back with the letter as he was doing his homework in the Great Hall.

 

 

> _Dear Alexander,_
> 
> _Thank you for the letter. We are very pleased to hear that you have settled in well at your first week in Hogwarts. Congratulations as well for being sorted into your House. While it was a hope of ours for you to have followed in the tradition of our Lightwood ancestors of having the honor of walking under the watchful eyes of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, we also understand that the Sorting Hat often has a mind of its own as it takes into consideration the unique traits and backgrounds of the students it encounters._
> 
> _Your father and I are currently in Idris, attending to family affairs that will have the potential to affect our Noble family's path in the future. At this point in time, my son, I am not able to divulge the nature of this business to you or your siblings. Please send our warm regards to Jace and Isabelle. All three of you are dearly missed and the family home is quite lonely and empty without your presences._
> 
> _We hope to see you back for the winter holidays._
> 
> _Sincerely yours,_
> 
> _Father and Mother_

Distant and detached, austere and mechanical, like all the other years of his life. Years of being raised and groomed to be the next head of the Lightwood lineage, to eventually take his place beside his father's seat in the Wizengamot, and a slew of other unspoken expectations designed with the end goal of increasing their family's reputation and honor amongst wizardkind and witchkind. All along, he was just a tool used to erase the bloody history of his parents' actions. He sometimes wondered if the term of 'blood traitor' would be an adequate title for them, seeing as it was from their own actions that their family name has descended into such a mess.

_"Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see, and not a bad mind either. Fiercely loyal and protective of those you love, yes, indeed. You remind me of someone else, oh yes, quite similar the both of you are. There's talent and an enormous thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you?"_

Alec opens his eyes and diverts his gaze to the evergreen scenery whisking past his windows. In retrospect, the decision was quite obvious. Slytherin chose him and welcomed him with open arms, and the violent round of applause that reached his ears as he sauntered over to the tables were just as prominent as it is now, even if it was submerged beneath layers of memories. Much to the utter dismay of his sister, and eventually later, to his younger brother, there was never a good memory he ever had in Hogwarts that didn't once involve some type of relation in the house of serpents. For the fearsome reputation that it unfairly gained as being the spawn bed of dark wizards, it sometimes continues to surprise him when his own fellow Slytherins were much less likely to snitch on the other snake, for whatever reason or motivation it was. Many of them were surprisingly pleasant and open-minded folk. Perhaps a little reserved on the get go, but once a snake opens up to you, it wasn't long before word goes around.

But, as it was always destined to be, Lightwoods always wound up having to accept the consequences of their actions sooner or later. The friendships he has built, the unshakeable camaraderie and trust amongst his friends, Slytherin or not, will soon be lost to the rain and storm that would undoubtedly follow him when the chilling news reaches Hogwarts. The only home he has ever known.

_"Muggleborn killer!"_

_"Death Eater!"_

_"Go back to Azkaban!"_

The jeers would soon follow him. His sister. His brothers. And he can't do much in the way of protecting them, because he will be first man bloodied the moment he sets foot on the castle grounds. After all, the wizarding world still hasn't completely healed from the aftermath of the Second War. It was always like that, wasn't it? History repeating itself. The names and faces change, but it always remained the same. Dark Lords rise and fall. Just like people like him.

It never ends.

Ollivander was a madman, a downright madman. He was, indeed, a pure and utter madman when he was still that naive Lightwood heir that first walked into his shop, starry-eyed and carried away as he eagerly awaited the fateful moment where he met his equal match in a wand. A life partner, that would evolve and adapt with him. Another step, another chance to prove himself worthy in the eyes of his parents.

A foolish aspiration, he bitterly learned later on, years down the road.

_"Such a unique combination. Phoenix feather core and this type of wand wood."_

_"Excuse me, sir?"_

_"I remembered every wand that I have ever sold, Mr. Lightwood. It is always curious to see how these things choose the masters that they do," Ollivander smiles softly, his aged eyes twinkling with the luminous insight of a moon. "And yet in all my years of living, I never would have thought to have been fortunate enough to see such a momentous occasion."_

_"I'm sorry, sir, but what's curious?" he scowled, eyebrows raised to his hairlines."_

_"Mr. Lightwood, apparently, it seems that you have found your ideal match in Elder," the wandmaker replies, his moon-like eyes fixed on him like a feline eyeing an opposum. "In all my years of study and dedication to my craft, it is only the truth that I speak of this. The truth is that only a highly unusual person will find their perfect match in elder, and on the rare occasion when such a pairing occurs, I take it as certain that the witch or wizard in question is marked out for a special destiny."_

_"Elder? But - why? Why not --"_

_"Why not be chosen by any other? Indeed the question, is it not? The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Lightwood. It is not always clear why. One thing is certain, however. I think we can expect many great things from you, Mr. Lightwood. Above all, I know it for certain that a wand of elder never chooses a wizard or witch for its partner if there was anything mundane about them."_

It was if Sir Ollivander himself forgot the tale of the Three Brothers.

Alec grits his teeth, fighting the lump of despair that coils around his stomach like a pit of restless snakes. The part of himself that always remained traitorously uncertain of anything in his life, cowers as an ancient proverb echoes at the back of his mind.

_"Wand of elder, never prosper."_

It was an omen as old as the Tale of the Three Brothers.

The chilling echo of brisk knocks on his compartment door wrenches him out of the tumultuous currents of his thoughts. A sharp scowl broke out over his eyebrows, before practised maneuvering allows him to wrestle back control of his composure. He takes in a sharp breath and glares pointedly at the source of the disturbance. His breath hitched in his lungs, his pharynx constricting slightly. The locking mechanism of his only line of defense, hisses and the sliding door of his compartment crawls to the side. A shock of styled raven hair peeks cheekily through the generous opening, dark chestnut irises glinting with some emotion he couldn't identify.

An asymmetrical smile appeared, two-parts sheepish and one-part curious. "Do you mind if I take a spot? Everywhere else is full, I'm afraid."

Alec exhaled roughly, and he swallows a few times to rid himself of the sudden parchness that crawls its way down his gut. He breaks his gaze momentarily with the man, gazing pointedly at the spare seat in front of him. He flickers his gaze back to the man, who is now clearly regarding him a raised brow. "Not at all," he replies stiffly, mouth set in grim lines as he feels his face turning to stone.

"Thank you," the man drops him a smile, the kind of smile that really reaches the eyes. He watches in detached fascination as the lines around the man's eyes crinkled and appeared in abundance, a marker of genuine relief.

As the other man took his merry time to settle in comfortably into his seat, Alec shifts his gaze and allows himself to detach from the present moment, eyes lazily watching the sloping laziness of the foothills and roaming evergreen trees whistling past the window. The onslaught of the rain drops continue pattering down on the glass, the droplets helpless to fall in with the allure of the gravitational force exerted on them. The tracks they made were impressive cubic lattices that were drawn into the window.

His mind naturally went back to mulling over his current dilemma for the year. Even if his family's name might be tarnished, he can probably still find a way to salvage his old connections and make certain that they would all be able to get themselves a foot in the door wherever they desire.

"I'm Magnus Bane, by the way. I don't believe we've met."

He removes his gaze from the window and stares unflinchingly into the eyes of the other man. Bare and direct, the other male had quite the captivating energy that seemed to be held in reserve behind his eyes. This man seemed to be the type that found it easy to smile, perhaps even find a kind word for anyone he comes across. Alec often prided himself in the way he could read people, but the man before him seemed shrouded in an impenetrable layer of unpredictability, as if his initial reactions were liable to change depending on the circumstances. His instincts hissed and snarled at him to be constantly vigilant of the presence in front of him.

"Alec," he returned bluntly. An undesirable itch tackles his hands, and he suddenly finds himself wanting to be occupied with something else.

"Alec?" the other man raises his eyebrows, a corner of his lips twitching upwards. "Just Alec?"

His jaw muscle tightened as he fought down the strange scorching wave of heat that warmed his gut. It took every grain of his being to collect that austere posturing that was passed down to him through generations of Lightwoods, and he drew on nearly endless willpower to allow that cutting austerity and reserve to bleed into his being.

Bane was not a pureblood family that had any roots or history in Britain, that much for he already knew that the man before him was quite evidently American, obvious in the accent and painfully more blatant in the manner of his clothing and by the air he carried himself with. There was an underlying sense of grace and elegance that characterized the man's disposition, a sense of easiness with himself and his relation to the entire world. An ease and boldness that will never be found in the ranks of the stifling broods in pureblood ranks.

A transfer, perhaps?

"Bane is not a pureblood family," Alec suddenly states.

The man seated opposite of him, suddenly stiffened at the nature of his remark. A part of Alec suddenly winces at the sheer lack of tact that he just displayed. He cursed inwardly to himself. Not even stepping foot in Hogwarts and he most likely already laid the foundations for his demise.

A defensive energy envelopes the aura around him, and a strained smile appears on the man's face, the type of smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "Very astute observation. Is that a problem?"

His gut sank when the defensiveness reeked through the words. The air in the compartment shivered and thickened into layers of brittle ice. Flinching slightly at his own impulsive tactlessness, Alec breaks his gaze and looks away beyond the window.

"No," he says, a sad muted volume that doesn't quite manage to conceal his apologetic undertone.

A dense layer of numbing silence saturates their private space on the train, permeating the room and consuming the vacuum of space. The black ice in his core creeps on the walls of his chest and morphs into a heavy block that compresses his lungs from all sides. The sinking weight on his chest feels comparable to having Mjolnir pinned to place above his sternum, a trap that takes away his freedom to move and escape. The weight on his chest compels him to release a rough exhale, exchanging what little air he has for more of the noxious substance permeating the air.

 _'I'm not like them. I'm not like them. I never wanted any of this,'_ was what he wanted to say.

The man seated opposite of him clears his throat unabashedly, prompting Alec to involuntarily tear his eyes away from the bleak partial reflections created on the window. There was something inherently different in those chestnut irises, a kind of glint that he might uncomfortably attribute to something called 'sympathetic understanding'. That old instinct of concealing emotional vulnerabilities, nudges his mind once again, and he reluctantly draws more strength from that part of himself. The man gives him another smile, small but kind, and this time, Alec knows that it was a genuine gesture of acceptance and forgiveness. He makes it a point to acknowledge their wordless exchange with a curt nod, before old instincts take over. Before he even knows it, he once again tears away his gaze and bitterly resorts to observing the sloping laziness of the evergreen scenery beyond his window.

"So, what House do you belong to, Alexander?"

A startled scowl appears on his face and he tears his attention away from the numb reverie he slipped into. The American muggleborn tilts his head, a slight quirking of his lips that gives him an air of tantalizing mystique and feline playfulness. He was immediately reminded of a Wampus that slinked along the lines of the shadows, amber eyes glimmering with the rumored gifts of hypnosis and Legilimency, an elegant and graceful creature who never felt the need to expend more energy than necessary to reach its goals. The Muggleborn in front of him was surrounded by an air of perpetual amusement, but underneath the facade, seemed to be a layer of stark empathy that gave him a frightening level of insight into the emotional affairs of the one he converses with.

Despite this flash of realization, Alec wasn't quite certain on what to make of his new acquaintance. Being called Alexander was definitely not the top of the list of things that he would have expected today. Regardless, this turn of events wasn't exactly unpleasant or even unwelcome. Still, he was hesitant to shift the power dynamics of their conversation in the man's favor. In the span of fifteen minutes, the man in front of him is the only other human that has come closest to indirectly unraveling the heart of his current problems, even with scant few words exchanged between them. He knows close to nothing about the man, and yet the man in front of him seemed to have known more about him than he ever intended to reveal.

"My name is not Alexander," Alec states curtly, strategically sidesteping the original question, rebuffing it with another blunt remark that wasn't really unfounded. The prickling sensation running down his back was just another physical symptom of his rising wariness.

"Are you sure about that?" an infuriating playfulness bleeds into his smile, infusing it with a feline quality that Alec instantly comes to dislike.

Merlin, what was this man playing at?

"Yes, I'm quite sure of that," he retorts calmly, unflinchingly glaring.

"You still haven't answered my question. What House are you in? Given your age, I highly doubt you are a first year," the American smirks. "I've heard a little about your Sorting system and how it works. I'm from Ilvermony myself, but of course, it never hurts to get an insider opinion."

_I'll give you one piece of information about me, in return for something from you._

Merlin's beard, this man was a bloody presumptious prat. It was as if he expects to be readily given what he has so boldly asked for!

"Slytherin," he drawls, deliberately dragging out the words. "I'm a Slytherin."

His dark eyebrows were raised to the edge of his hairline. "Slytherin? Interesting. House of the ambitious, the shrewd, and the cunning?" the man smiles, his eyes glinting with deeply reserved mischief. "What a surprise. Do you have any siblings that are in the same House?"

Alec grits his teeth, drawing on his endless willpower to keep his breathing steady and his head in a level-headed manner. "No."

The man tilts his head again, eyeing him with the morbid interest that was eerily reminiscent of a natural philosopher. "No siblings? Or, they are in different Houses?"

"I'm the only one in Slytherin," he replies with an air of feigned nonchalance, shifting his eyes away from the other's in a blatant show of dismissal.

"Tell me, Alexander," the American Muggleborn continues pressing. The subtle sharpness that creeps into the words piques his interest, and Alec slowly turns his gaze from the window to meet the challenging tone that is starting to bleed through their conversation. "Why are you trying so hard to push me away?"

_Because I don't trust you. I can't trust you. I can't trust anybody else._

Trust has been the currency that he has been lacking as of late. It has dropped in value and whatever remaining principal balance he has was already abused by his estranged parents. He was just waiting for everyone else that he has called a friend, to start walking away as soon as he reaches Hogwarts. So, Alec knows that he can be forgiven for the lack of warmth and gregariousness.

Alec clenches his jaw, the tired tension bleeding into the muscles between his shoulders. He exhales roughly, pinning the muggleborn with a glare that he desperately hopes doesn't communicate the magnitude of his exhaustion. "Hasn't it ever occurred to you that maybe I just don't _wan't_ to talk?"

"It doesn't hurt to talk from time to time, Alexander. Or, make new friends."

"I don't think _you_ know what it is you're precisely walking into, Mr. Bane," Alec intones icily. "Do you even know who I am? Because if you did, then I know for a fact that the last person you want to have everyone know that you associated with is me."

"Is it because you're a Lightwood? Is that what you meant?" the man arched an eyebrow, head tilted at an angle. "In case you didn't already know, I got that much from you since I walked in to your compartment."

A bitter sound escaped his lips before he could fully suppress it. "What gave it away?"

"Call it a hunch, if you will," he smiles softly, a curious glint creping into his eyes.

Why wasn't this man leaving already?

The wounded basilisk in his chest stirs from a troubled slumber and starts creeping out from its lair, unfurling everything he has suppressed in the last few months. Cold and defensive anger courses through his bloodstream, flooding it with bitter resentment that burns hotly underneath his skin. Alec was growing intimately familiar with this type of anger that it is sometimes frightening him how it often starts to come out.

He swallows back the bitterness. "Then you already what we are."

"It wasn't by your hand that these people died, Alexander. If you were afraid that I would pass on judgment to someone who clearly has had nothing to do with any of this, then you are sorely mistaken," he replies softly. "You are not to be judged by the transgressions of others. You never asked for this."

Merlin's beard, what is it with this man and his frightening tendency to continuously pull more emotional confessions and highly personal information from him, with hardly any effort at all on his part? Above all, why is it this man, in particular, making it so _easy_ to share his private thoughts on these matters? As if they were merely like old friends sitting together on a lonesome bench in a park, so comfortable with freely exchanging the most intimate details of themselves with nary a fear of having that information filed away and used as blackmail for personal ends.

Why is this man making him _want_ to? Why is this man making it so hard for him to be distant?

He has to stop. He has to distance himself immediately and detach himself from this man's presence and siren-like charisma, whatever form his means may take. For Merlin's sake, he is a Lightwood and he _will_ conduct himself in a manner befitting his family name. He _will_ become a respectable figure in wizarding society. He _will_ restore the Lightwood family's name and reputation. He _will_ succeed and survive in Hogwarts, because he still loves his family and his younger siblings. He owes them to survive this, this form of hell that will inevitably hunt them down in Hogwarts. He _must_ succeed, because he can't bear to entertain the thought of what could happen to them if he failed.

A fierce knocking on the compartment door startles him out of his somber reverie.

He accidentally exchanges glances with the American muggleborn in front of him, as he abruptly raises his head from a bowed position. The Slytherin instantly comes to regret his action when a spark of determination ignites to life behind those chestnut irises, effectively signalling the fact that their conversation is far from being finished. By virtue of Lightwood stubbornness, Alec hardens his gaze to the sharpness of flint and pins him with an arctic glare.

The muggleborn frowns. "Alexander --"

"I suggest you drop it, Bane. There's nothing else to talk about."

The wooden compartment door slides noisily to the side. Fringes of platinum blonde hair explodes into his view, a hint of evergreen displayed from the hood of the black robes worn around the person's broad frame. "Alec? Did you hear --"

The enthusiastic tangent abruptly cuts off, the Slytherin in question scowling at the American muggleborn seated opposite of him. Sharp eyes dart back and forth between them both, before his fellow Slytherin pins him with a questioning glance, grey eyes gleaming with curiosity.

His fellow Slytherin clears his throat, making no effort to conceal his bemused expression. "Pardon me, but, am I interrupting something?"

"Well -"

" _No_ , of course not," Alec cuts in abruptly, deliberately keeping his gaze fixed on his friend in order to avoid the frustrated glance being sent his way. "What was it that you wanted to tell me?"

A characteristic glint appears in those grey irises, a kind of shrewd realization. Alec feels a sudden sense of apprehension and wariness clawing his gut. "It's really not that urgent, mate. We can talk more about it when we're back in the Common Room. It's just regular old housekeeping stuff. For the rest of the year, things like that," a shrewd grin breaks across his face. "Would you care to introduce your friend, Alec? Or are you going to let that Lightwood charm slide down the drain?"

"Lightwood charm?" the American raises an eyebrow, an amused quirk of his lips breaking through his dangerously expressive face.

"The name's Alphard Malfoy," his fellow Slytherin practically _purred_ at the seated American, his gaze intensifying by the second. The seventh-year Slytherin tilts his head and makes no effort at hiding the appraising glance he sweeps over the man's figure. "I'm terribly sorry about my best mate over here. It's a bit of an ongoing issue, really. He doesn't really know how to talk to people. Lightwoods have always been the reserved sort, tragic as it is."

"I'm managing fine, but thanks for your concern," Bane smiles politely, despite the occasional twitch of amusement that breaks through his face. "And Magnus Bane is the name. But everyone calls me Magnus."

"Right, and I take it your man over here insists on calling you by your surname?" Malfoy grins, the traitor. "Tsk. We must work on your social skills, Lightwood. At this point, you're never gonna get laid."

Alec draws in a breath, and exhales slowly through his nose. He cranes his neck and pins his fellow Slytherin with a scalding gaze strong enough to skin the pelt of the a fully grown Nundu. "Get out, Malfoy."

A part of him recoils in horror when Bane suddenly develops a shrewd demeanor.

The bastard grins even more. "Don't think so, Alec. Can't escape --"

Alec scowls, raising an arm abruptly and flicking his hand in a curt gesture along the compartment door. The door grumbles as it engages with the lock mechanism, effectively barring them from the outside world. The Slytherin balefully eyes Alphard Malfoy, who was still standing outside of their compartment with a triumphant grin. In response, Alec simply hardens his resolve and continues his glaring fit. After Malfoy shakes his head, he walks away from the conpartment, disappearing further down the narrow hall. With another sharp exhale, Alec shakes his head at his friend's antics, ignoring the slight burst of warmth proliferating in his chest. Perhaps he still had friends in Slytherin. Was it really too much to ask for him to keep that?

"You can do wandless magic?" Bane says softly, as if he was out of breath.

_'Damn it. Why do I keep slipping up? Merlin, why does he make it easy for me to make elementary mistakes like this?'_

"It's not common knowledge, and I would like to keep it that way," Alec intones, making no effort to hide the implicit threat beneath his words.

A conflicted expression appears on the man's face, a cross between frustration and hurt. "Of course. What did you take me for? Mercy Lewis, I don't kiss and tell, Alexander," Bane was quick to retort, the sharp edge from earlier returning with a defensive eagerness.

He has to drive this man away from him. He can't risk it. He can't afford to risk everything he has ever built for himself, and the plans that he has moving forward. Now that the other man was pitted on the defensive, Alec can switch his tactics and go for the offensive. Fluster and confuse. Divide and conquer. He has to make it clear.

"Before this train gets to Hogwarts, let me make something clear," he starts in a soft voice, hardening himself mentally when the American muggleborn in front of him suddenly stiffens at the change in tone. "I'm not your friend. And I don't plan on changing that anytime soon. I don't care that you want an ally in me. The Lightwoods are not your allies or friends. Frankly, I don't even know what was going through your head when you chose to walk through that door. By your own confession, you already knew who I was before you even walked through that door. I have reasons not to trust you. So, do yourself a favor. _Stay out of my way._ Before you get hurt. Because Hogwarts is not Ilvermony. And if you get yourself caught up with the wrong crowd, you will regret it."

The American's chestnut eyes darkened, reminiscent of a warm hearth starting to ignite back to heightened ferocity after a period of dormancy. "Is that a threat? Or a warning? What a pity I can't tell the difference," a lethal smile distorts the man's ethereal face, a feigned gesture of civility that hints at the serpent underneath.

_Wand of elder, never prosper._

The ancient saying reverberates across the walls of his mind once again.

"Take care not to wander to the serpent's pit," he calmly retorts. Alec rises to his full height and looks down on the American muggleborn, taking great effort to keep his face stonily blank of any emotion that might betray his internal conflict. "It bites back."

An involuntary shiver runs down his spine when a flicker of cold determination emerges briefly from the sea of storms behind the man's gaze, before sinking back down to the twilight depths. "You can't make me do anything."

A painful pang of melancholy slices across his chest. Alec fights down the agonizing despair that eviscerates his chest like a storm of serrated daggers. Years of austere control and willpower gave him what little resolve he had left to retain his dignity. It cuts him straight through the core of what he is and what he stands for, because once he says these words, he can't and won't be able to take back the hurt and damage that he will irrevocably cause.

It was a pity however. Alec knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if things turned out differently, Magnus Bane would have been one of the most genuine and loyal relationships he would've ever had the privilege of knowing. It pains him, greatly so, that he lost another friend because of the Lightwood history with pureblood supremacy. In another time, in another life, he would have chosen differently.

_Wand of elder, never prosper._

It was an omen from his younger, naive years. The carriers of wands made of elder wood, were confined to lonely destinies, Alec realized. Lonely destinies that might end in a violent death for the wand carrier. If the Sorting hat made a different decision to sort him to a different House, he would be laughing at the irony of it all if his alternate self were to face the same situation, considering what he was planning to do with the remainder of his years. Moving forward, Alec only has one burning ambition achieve. The one and only ambition of his short life.

Protect his family, restore their honor, and kill the Dark Lord.

"Yes, I can, _mudblood_."

An icy chill engulfs his senses and envelopes his heart, and the arctic waters of his tortured emotions submerges his head under the water, flooding his ears with a screeching noise. The tumultuous storm of magic hidden away beneath layers of iron control, hissed to life and screeched like an enraged basilisk, invisible tendrils lashing out around the isolated compartment. A small chink appears on the window to his right, the crevice slowly growing until the crack in the glass mimics the appearance of thunder. A vicious force latches on to Magnus' clothes, fishing him out of his seat with a violence that astonishes him. Alec's tortured magic pushes the man against the walls of the compartment, invisible claws keeping him in place.

Chestnut eyes were widened precariously, the shorter man's breaths coming in shallow series of gasps and fearful wheezing. His tortured magical core winds around the American's chest, giving it a painful and warning squeeze. Alec honors the man's plight by looking at him straight in the eye, allowing himself to completely acknowledge and absorb the agonizing betrayal and tortured realization he sees in those captivating depths. After a few more moments, Alec feels a vicious pride flowing through him when Magnus hardens his gaze and the lethal determination returning in his eyes. Despite his threatening position, an ominous shiver slithers down his spine when that very same determination bleeds into the man's face.

A glassy stare meets his gaze. "You know, your siblings would be so disappointed in you, Alexander. Oh, yes, I had the pleasure of meeting them."

His heart clenches painfully at those words. Alec brutally smashes the shaky exhale that almost escaped his lungs.

Magnus pulls his mouth in an asymmetrical smile, eyes glistening with unshed tears, a shadow of sadness and resignation bleeding into his expressive face. "They were so nice. So _kind_. They couldn't stop talking about the big brother that _loved_ them so much. That _cared_ for them so much. The big brother that would always take the blame for their misadventures, if it meant sparing them from the punishment that might follow. Back then, I thought, how can a person like that be a Slytherin? How, I asked."

"And so, I decided to keep my initial conclusions to myself and come see for myself the character of this man they were so fond of talking about," he continues smiling sadly. "Suffice to say, they will be disappointed."

Alec hardens his resolve, even if the cracks on his hold and composure were rapidly decaying into the ether. "Then they didn't really know me as well as they thought they did."

The sad smile disappears. A pained edge starts taking over the American muggleborn's face. "Your siblings would be disappointed in you, Alexander. No, not because you decided to call me a mudblood," a shaky chuckle escapes his lips. "Oh. Never that. No. I know your character, Alexander, even if we might not have known each other for long. There is no point in lying to us both. I can see, even from here, that the very act of saying them killed a vital part of you. It killed a part of you, because it goes against every grain of who you stand for. No, they would be disappointed in you because you are about to embark on something dangerous. Something dangerous that can potentially take your life, and you didn't trust them enough to confide in them."

The electrical activity of his heart freezes for one halting second. "You know nothing of what I am."

"Don't be a fool, Alexander. You've already revealed too much. It's too late to hide them behind lies and subterfuge," Magnus smiles sadly. "I may not know the details, but it doesn't matter. You are not a pureblood elitist, Alexander, and nothing you will ever do will convince me. Taking on their skin and attitudes will not help you in your quest."

_Wand of elder, never prosper._

An icy block of fear bleeds into his chest, hardening to a formidable iceberg that drags him down. His tortured magic retaliates against the environment and abruptly relinquishes its hold on Magnus, the invisible tendrils coiling back around him in protection. When the ringing in his ears subsides, Alec becomes painfully aware of the labored breaths assaulting his lungs. The last of his strength withers away and he stumbles back a few steps. Magnus clumsily falls to the cushioned seat with a pained grunt, wincing as he gingerly rubs his sore ribs.

His throat clicks as he swallows down the lump in his throat. The edge of his cushioned seat presses painfully against the back of his calves. His carotid artery gallops at the frantic pace of a stallion escaping a captor. His lungs convulsed and thrashed as more oxygen leaves his body. Alec stares at the spot above Magnus' head, his body locked in a rigid state of stubborn immobilization, his limp hands seized by violent tremors.

In the name of Salazar, what was he _doing_? What the bloody hell was he thinking? What in Merlin's name _was he thinking_?

They will hear about this.

They _will_ hear about this. Everyone at Hogwarts, in Slytherin, will hear about how Alec Lightwood, heir to the Lightwood lordship, lost his control and assaulted a fellow student. A _Muggleborn_ transfer student from Ilvermony. Physically and verbally assaulted a _Muggleborn_ student. Word of his deed will spread. And like the emotionally compromised fool he was, his siblings would no doubt be dragged into the bloody mess he just created. All because he couldn't control himself around _one_ man. And of his friends in Slytherin, he will be eaten alive in the serpent's pit for setting them back years of progress in fighting the House prejudice they have always faced from the other Houses and professors.

 _Death Eater_.

 _Pureblood elitist_.

_Muggleborn killer._

"Alexander?"

He needs to leave.

He needs to _leave._

He needs to leave!

"Alexander!"

Alec startles out of his reverie. His eyes widened a fraction and fixes itself on the wide-eyed face of the man in front of him. The Ilvermony student slowly detaches the arm wrapped around his abdomen. Alec instantly darts his attention to the arm that was slowly reaching out to him. His nostrils flared and his mouth hangs agape as he tries to recover the oxygen debt accrued by his body.

"Alexander," the man says softly, slowly, as if he was a wild animal cornered into a last stand. "Hey. It's okay. I'm okay. Alexander. I'm fine."

He needs to leave.

Alec flinches backwards violently when the hand reaching out to him almost touches his tremoring hands. An ominous thud echoes around the compartment as he clumsily lands against the door of the compartment. Magnus jerks back in unfiltered surprise, his arm falling limply to his side. The muggleborn's eyes widened in horrified realization and that dangerous edge of determination returns, a resolve that would no doubt result in Alec's expulsion from Hogwarts.

The man swallows, his brows knitted together in furious concentration. It seemed to take everything he had to stay seated, as if he was reluctant to do anything else that might send Alec apparating to the Himalayas. "Alexander, listen to me carefully. I'm _not_ going to hurt you."

That's what they would say.

Of course.

"Alexander," the man pleads, his voice breaking with desperation. "I'm not going to tell anyone. I promise. _Alexander_."

He needs to **leave**.

The door behind him screeches as it is suddenly opened by the shockwave of his wandless magic. A distressed sound escapes the other man's lips as Alec stumbles backwards into the hallway, his back colliding heavily with the dark color of the wooden walls lining the narrow passageway. The compartment door thrashes to life again and slides to a locked position with hiss, at the same instant when the man inside his former compartment desperately lunges for the door. The wood groans underneath the trapped man's desperation, his eyes betraying his distraught state. After a few more attempts, the man inside his compartment shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against the glass.

**Wand of elder, never prosper.**

He can't escape his fate. The fate that befell his parents. The fate that befell every other Lightwood before him. He can run but he will soon run out of places to hide.

Alec turns and _runs_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we dive deeper into this verse, I would like to say up front that there is a reason as to why I decided to pick out the wand wood and core type that each character has in this setting. As I've tagged above, I'm quite obsessed with the symbolism in wand woods on Pottermore and I decided that it would be an entertaining idea to include them here as a big part of this story. For now, I'll start off with Alec and Magnus.
> 
> \- Alec Lightwood: **Elder, phoenix feather core, 12 3/4 inches, Unyielding**  
>  \- Magnus Bane: **Rowan, thunderbird tail feather core, 10 3/4 inches, Hard**
> 
> And here is some information on each wand wood from Pottermore:
> 
>  **Elder**  
>  The rarest wand wood of all, and reputed to be deeply unlucky, the elder wand is trickier to master than any other. It contains powerful magic, but scorns to remain with any owner who is not the superior of his or her company; it takes a remarkable wizard to keep the elder wand for any length of time. The old superstition, ‘wand of elder, never prosper,’ has its basis in this fear of the wand, but in fact, the superstition is baseless, and those foolish wandmakers who refuse to work with elder do so more because they doubt they will be able to sell their products than from fear of working with this wood. 
> 
> The truth is that only a highly unusual person will find their perfect match in elder, and on the rare occasion when such a pairing occurs, I take it as certain that the witch or wizard in question is marked out for a special destiny. An additional fact that I have unearthed during my long years of study is that the owners of elder wands almost always feel a powerful affinity with those chosen by rowan.
> 
>  **Rowan**  
>  Rowan wood has always been much-favoured for wands, because it is reputed to be more protective than any other, and in my experience renders all manner of defensive charms especially strong and difficult to break. It is commonly stated that no dark witch or wizard ever owned a rowan wand, and I cannot recall a single instance where one of my own rowan wands has gone on to do evil in the world. Rowan is most happily placed with the clear-headed and the pure-hearted, but this reputation for virtue ought not to fool anyone – these wands are the equal of any, often the better, and frequently out-perform others in duels.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please leave a kudos and a comment below and let me know what you thought of it.


	2. The Basilisk and Thunderbird

 

For the first hour since he fled from his compartment, Alec stared at the gaunt reflection facing him in the mirror in the private bathroom his family has rented for the duration of the year. The lighting was abysmal, the flames from the lamps occasionally flickering. The steadfast movements of the train continue delivering little pulses of tremors across the floors, from time to time. Through it all, his wariness hasn't waned as he continues fighting the rising tide of foreboding expectation invading his gut.

Despite his accidental demonstration of his aptitude for wandless magic in front of another witness, Alec knows that his ability was still temperamental at best, often having a mind of its own that lashes out or withdraws depending on the nature of his emotional state. At the time when he frantically retreated from the dangers presented by his private compartment, his wandless magic was able to temporarily lock in and isolate the American wizard, a visceral and unconscious response to a perceived threat to his survival. He knows all too well that it was supposed to be temporary, for everything on the Hogwarts Express runs on magic and anything that was strong enough to temporarily reverse its intended function would wear off, sooner or later. Given the amount of time that has passed, he is becoming increasingly less confident in his ability to evade any more unecessary attention until they reach Hogwarts.

He shuts his eyes and clenches his jaws, trying his best to keep his breathing patterns moderate and deep.

For once in his life, he was grateful for his best friend's untimely intervention. If the conversation went in that direction instead, he fears what further damage and harm he could have done, to his family and his siblings. At that point it was starting to already become too personal, and the foolish man he was, he started reverting back to old instincts of previous Lightwoods before him, inheriting their tendency of locking down on the threat and immediately finding ways to ruthlessly execute it. For an ancient line of pure-blood wizards and witches, the Lightwoods were unusually bold and domineering in the face of pursuing something. Perhaps if he inherited more of that bravery, he reckoned that he probably would have ended up in Gryffindor and this entire mess wouldn't have evolved.

But that was the issue, wasn't it? He wasn't a bloody Gryffindor or a sodding Ravenclaw. He was a bloody Slytherin. He wasn't as hot-headed and emotionally impulsive as Jace, or as bold and daring and flamboyant as Izzy. Merlin, he wasn't even as scholarly and witty as Max. Where his siblings preferred a direct response to a situation, he would often find himself hesitating and wanting to know more about a situation before he crafts his strategies and tactics. Slow to trust and quick to evaluate, it has ended up saving him from making stupid mistakes. He was brave and aggressive when needed, but often it was the last resort and the least favoured method. He preferred keeping out of the limelight, because past experience has shown him that it often brings more trouble than it was worth.

The point was, Alec was always the person counted on to have a plan for every major aspect of life. Even before his parents meddled with their reputation and tarnished it, Alec once had a plan for his life and how his younger siblings fit in it. In those days of youthful naivete, he dared to allow himself to dream of becoming an accomplished Auror, holding a seat in the Wizengamot. He dared to dream of becoming the Head of the Department of Magical Law and Enforcement, hunting down Dark Wizards and Dark Witches, keeping the peace and security across wizarding Britain. He dared to dream of studying magical creatures, like his great-great grand-uncle, Newton Scamander. He even idly entertained the thought of having a family someday, settling down somewhere in one of the abandoned estates he will claim in his Gringotts inheritance papers, leaving the Lightwood estates and all of its abhorrent history to the ether.

And now, even the glimpse of his own future was lost on him.

The Lightwood family wasn't the only wizarding family in the list of names that were uncovered as having a role in the Uprising that occurred ten years ago. Carrow, Lestrange, Rosier, Goyle, Macnair, Starkweather and Morgenstern were a few of the well known names revealed. Many other minor families were also revealed to have associations with the Circle.

While the Lightwoods had a history of being somewhat open about its views on blood politics, as was generally the case from wizarding families of pure-blood ancestry, it still hurt to realize that this archaic view has endured even to the ranks of his family today, espoused by his parents no less. It hurts even more to think that he willingly and consciously regurgitated the same hurtful slurs to a Muggleborn. An American Muggleborn, who out of sheer bravery and nerve, decided to reach out and attempted to forge some semblance of a friendship with a descendant of pureblood elitists. Everything he was, was about being different from his parents and his family history.

It hurts to think that it may as well have been for nothing after all.

A part of him aches and yearns to wander back to his compartment and apologize to the man. The man who saw through everything, the gentle and discerning eyes of the man who still found the strength to continue being kind, even if Alec's abrasiveness and terseness would have repelled many away faster than he can utter one of the spell incantations from the Dark Arts tomes his family possessed. He yearns to apologize and make things right, but as always, his ruthless and cutting logic overrules the more tender aspects of his mind.

His instincts have always served him well. Where others would rush into action at the mere presence of a threat, real or perceived, he prefers to maximize his survival rate by first taking a step back and analyzing the entire problem. Only by first distilling the problem to its essential ingredients can he make a decision.

He needs time to think and a place to do it safely. Preferably away from the general vicinity of his old compartment. Also, preferably away from the compartments that were usually haunted by his siblings. Preferably far away from people at all. He can't trust himself to think if any human is within a hundred yard radius.

He needs to be alone for a few days, concocting a new strategy for how he will survive for the rest of his final year at Hogwarts and sort out his priorities and outstanding legal matters for his family.

He needs to be alone, without the company of others. He needs to regain his composure and learn to fully master his emotions, before he loses it again, a definite possibility if he ever interacts with that man again. He has to start working out a plan on how he can get stronger and faster and better as the school year goes on. He has to graduate his NEWTS and get nothing less than 'Exceeds Expectations', if he ever plans realizing his ambition to become one of the best Aurors in the world. He has to learn Occlumency and figure out how to compartmentalise his emotions. Above all, he has to do all of this while keeping his siblings and friends in the dark about his plans.

He didn't survive this long and get this far without thinking things through and planning ahead. Right now, he'll let it slide. Right now, it was alright to break down a little before coming back to face the real world. He'll find a way. Lightwoods always find a way. He'll make it out of this one.

Alec exhales roughly as he retreats from the mirror and turns away from the sink, retreating into the corner of the private bathroom that held the comfortable, ebony armchair. Beside it was a small coffee table stacked with different kinds of reading material, from Muggle fiction to more technical tomes that dealt with topics on the Defense Against the Dark Potions and magical creatures. The armchair greeted him like an old friend, and a part of him ignites in a brief spark of explosive sentiment.

The familiar cover of a book peaks out shyly in the midst of the organized chaos.

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._

A memory assaults him again.

_"Uncle! Uncle Percy! Is it true that Thunderbirds can sense danger before it happens?"_

_The towering figure of his uncle lowers itself, bending his knees, coming to a stop at the height of his small toddler frame. Uncle's dark eyes glint like the irises of a Wampus, his eyes smiling. "Why, yes, they do."_

_Toddler Alec shrieked in delight. "Really? Can I see one? Can I see one? Please! I want to see one!"_

_An amused glint takes over Uncle's gaze, his grey eyebrow raised. "I don't think your parents will approve of that, little one."_

_Toddler Alec pouted as his hair was playfully ruffled by a calloused hand. He ducks away and balefully glares at Uncle, who was now smiling fondly down at him like he found the entire request entertaining. "They never let me do anything! It's all about lessons and manners and pureblood history and it's all so boring! If adults are that boring, then maybe I don't want to grow up!"_

_Uncle Percy bursts out into a bellowing chuckle, shaking his head. A curious sheen takes over his eyes, and the smile on Uncle's face dies a little, although it still remained. It seemed a little more strained, Toddler Alec noticed. "You're so much like your Uncle. You're so alike, it's a little hard sometimes to tell the difference."_

_"Uncle?" he frowned. "Are you alright?"_

_Uncle Percy inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring as if he was trying hard to hold something back. His eyes lost a little bit of their lustre, and for a moment, it seemed that he was somewhere else but here. "Yes. Uncle's going to be fine. Don't worry about me, alright?" Uncle smiles again, although this type of smile was a little too forced for his liking._

_"I don't believe you, Uncle. Something is bothering you. Tell me," Toddler Alec demanded._

_Uncle Percy shakes his head, smiling even as it becomes more strained by the second. "You won't understand it until you are older. Until then, go have your adventures, my little Thunderbird. Who knows, you might even see one someday."_

_Toddler Alec frowned. "That's not fair! I want to see one now!"_

_Uncle Percy gives him that smile again, the one he is starting not to like. It looks too sad, he thinks. Uncle Percy should be happy!_

_Uncle Percy leans forward and kisses his forehead, his nose digging into his unruly fur of black hair. "Promise me one thing, little one."_

_"Uncle, what's wrong?"_

_"Nothing's wrong, little one," Uncle Percy whispers. "Promise me, when the time comes, that you will do everything in your power to fight for the people you love. Promise me that you won't follow in the footsteps of your family."_

_Uncle Percy sounds serious. Deadly serious._

_"I promise, Uncle," he whispers back._

_Uncle Percy exhales, a sound too raw, too wounded. Toddler Alec feels a little pulse of fear and uncertainty coursing through him. "When you find someone that captures your heart, your love, promise me that you will do everything and anything to never let them out of your sight. Promise me."_

_"I promise, Uncle," he repeats again._

_"Good. Remember, little one, that it's our choices that will define who we are as people," Uncle says softly. "Not the circumstances of our birth, blood, or anything else. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."_

_"Uncle, there's something you're not telling me. Please tell me what's wrong!"_

_Uncle Percy smiles, a little too sad than he should have been. "Maybe when you're older, my little Thunderbird."_

A few weeks after, Uncle Percy passed away in his sleep in his family estates in upstate New York. He died alone in a dreamless sleep, in a house that should have been filled with children, family and friends. The last good and kind-hearted man his life, had finally greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, parting this life as equals. In his last will, Uncle Percy has named him as the official successor to the Graves name, family fortune and connections, and his long list of family properties.

It was more than he could have ever hoped for from his filthy parents.

If he could ever be half the man Uncle Percy was, he would have considered himself a very content man, indeed.

That is all he wants.

To have all the power in the world, to protect his loved ones.

Before he even knows it, he slips into a deep slumber, traversing into a world of his own.

He dreams of dark chestnut eyes and dark grey storm clouds hovering above the horizon of the sapphire seas, the silhouette of a winged creature a few wingbeats ahead of the thunderous growls bellowing in the background. In this dream of storms and tumultuous seas, a magnificent Basilisk waits on the shores of the raging sea, its amber eyes gleaming with fond anticipation as it awaits for change.

* * *

The callous halting motion of the Hogwarts Express wrenches him out of his peaceful respite. Alec opens his eyes and almost stumbles out of the comfortable armchair, the fingers gripping the armrest rapidly turning white. He swallows back the bitter bile rising in his throat and he shakily pulls himself to stand on his feet. He withdraws his hands and hastily brushes down his Slytherin robe before heading towards the exit.

"Your hair is messy. Might want to brush it down or slick it back, unless you want to be noticed," his reflection comments, an amused tone leaking through the words.

He shakes his head, heading out of his private bathroom with a determined spring in his strides. He makes a sharp turn to the right, exhaling in relief when the narrow passageway was packed with unfamiliar faces. Inaudible conversations and cacophony flood the air and it never fails to make him relax his guard, to finally be back in a place and position where he could predict how things would turn out. He draws his shoulders back and retreats into a commanding posture as he weaves through the frenetic crowds in the passageway.

It was a good thing he didn't pack anything else with him then, because his personal House Elf has already delivered everything to their House dormitories for his family in advance of their arrival in King's Cross. If not, he highly doubted that the American muggleborn would've been above taking advantage of invading his personal privacy by looking through the contents of his trunk. Not that anyone would be foolish enough to even consider entering his own family's private bathroom aboard the train, lest they want all sorts of nasty hexes coming their way.

The wild smells of the external world assaults his senses when he finally steps out of the Hogwarts Express. The background of the twinkling cosmos gazes down at him, the obsidian maw of the universe threatening to swallow up the earth with the stars and galaxies swirling around its teeth. The wind of autumn was strong this night, ruffling the ancient trees that stood on the grounds.

Alec swallows back the sudden dryness in his throat as he looks back down and scans his eyes over the sea of mingling bodies scrambling to get to the carriages and boats. A few moments later, a familiar shock of ebony hair suddenly emerges from one of the points of exit located along the Hogwarts Express, exactly two carriage-lengths down from he was currently standing. Even amongst the confusion of the mingling crowds, Alec will always be able to distinguish the familiar figures of his siblings who were apparently waiting for Bane's subsequent appearance. Even from where he is standing, invisible and anonymous amongst the crowds, it was gut wrenchingly obvious that his little nest of two lions and one eaglet seemed to have quickly attached themselves to someone else, welcoming one more person in their fold.

Izzy, ever the daring lion she was at heart, greets Magnus Bane like they were already on their way to becoming the best of friends for life. Jace, as unchanging as ever, gives him a curt nod of distanced civility before turning away in search of his girlfriend. Max, always with that glint of enthusiasm and life in his eyes, starts chatting away and bombarding the Asian-American with lively questions. Alec has a good hunch that Max was probably pestering the man about Ilvermony and how it differs from Hogwarts. His little nest of people start unconsciously swarming around the other man, their faces alight with delight and genuine joy. More happiness than he ever saw in them in the past few months, perhaps even years. His little group of people, were finally growing up, finding their own places in the world.

Even from this distance, despite the vibrant and breath-taking smiles appearing on that expressive face, Alec knows that the Ilvermony transfer student will not be the type to suddenly let go of what happened in his private compartment. For some reason, Alec has come to the conclusion that this man seemed to be the hardy type, the determined soul, a mind that is frighteningly adept at noticing the subtleties of each person he meets. For some reason, it keenly reminds him of the Thunderbird, a creature capable of detecting danger before it even occurs. A creature so perceptive and cognizant, that it unnerves him greatly. The serpent within him, the part that comprises his generous well of self-preservation, even admits to being fascinated with the man himself.

This fascinating conundrum of a man, emerging unscathed from their fight, shrouded in an air of elegance and calm confidence, as if nothing ruffled him or frightened him a few hours before. This fascinating man, mingling and infiltrating his social circles, conversing with the people he is fiercely protective of, with the ease of someone who has known them for all their lives. He makes it easy for everyone to approach him, to tempt them to unburden their most intimate secrets in his presence.

_Dangerous. Dangerous. Must avoid._

From the distance, the Muggleborn abruptly stops and a confused expression appears on his face. His head instantly perks up and makes no effort to hide the probing nature of his eyes, as if he was scanning the crowd for someone. His siblings, already clustered around him like a flock of birds, suddenly stiffened at the tense nature of his body language.

"Alec? Mate, I've been calling you over for the last ten seconds, you prat!"

Alec jerks out of his trance and he swallows again, whirling around in a bout of tense energy, only to come to a startling halt when Alphard Malfoy was suddenly standing in front of him. Steel eyes sharpened to flint, the lines of his mouth firm and stiff with worry and concern. Malfoy arches a brow and crosses his arms over his chest, the soft wind ruffling his Slytherin robes. The lethal tension within his shoulders dissipates and Alec makes a hasty retreat from his spot, quickly shouldering past Alphard to join the stream of bodies headed towards the Thestral carriages that will take them to Hogwarts. An unfamiliar burning sensation suddenly erupts on the base of his neck, and Alec hastens his strides.

He has been found. He needs to _leave_.

A firm hand claws his wrist, trapping him in s death grip. "Hey! Hey, can you wait for a bloody second? What's wrong with you?"

The tendons on his trapped wrist suddenly clench and his muscles find the strength to break away from his friend's formidable grip. He whirls around in a desperate show of force and steps in to his friend's personal space, his nostrils flared as his lungs start working like a sick man dying to take his last breath. "Stay out of my way, Alphard. You don't want to do this right now in front of the others. Trust me."

A betrayed and puzzled glint appears in his eyes. Alphard flinches back a little, as if the sudden venom in his words sucker punched him in the gut. "What the bloody hell are you going on about, Alec? What the fuck happened to you?"

The searing sensation in his neck flares with a vengeance, and there is no doubt that the Muggleborn was now actively trying to fight his way through the flow of the student crowds. "Alphard, if you trust me, let's get _out_ of here," he growls in a bearish tenor. "I just want this day over with."

A shrewd expression dominated Alphard's facial expression. Fortunately, at least his fellow Slytherin knew when to be discreet and when to push for answers. His steel gaze flickers to a point beyond his shoulders, before coming back to gaze at him, no doubt taking stock of the desperation evident in his body language. "Fine. But we're going to the Common Room straight out and you're going to spil your guts on this."

"Thank you," Alec mutters, exhaling sharply.

Alphard nods in the direction of the path that will take them both to the Thestral carriages. "Come on," he whispers. "Let's go home. I'm sure you're dying to get back to the dorms. I can see you're tired."

"Yeah, no shit," he retorts.

"Well, someone _clearly_ has to take the job of making sure you're looked after."

"Since when did you become my mother, you mother hen?" Alec snaps back, a little breathless from the assault of relief that wells up in his gut.

The searing sensation in his neck recedes.

But Alec knows, well knows being the Slytherin he was, that this victory was only momentary.

* * *

Alec keeps his sharp eyes trained firmly on the ancient doors as they both groaned and swung open with a mighty burst of air. On the space to his left, Alphard Malfoy suddenly perks up and inches over a little closer to him, his neck oustretched to watch the momentous occasion that happened every year in the beginning of every school term. Alec observed the little twitch of a child-like delight playing at the edges of his friend's mouth, despite trying his best to maintain the infamous Malfoy detachment. With a dismssive sweep of his eyes, he clenches his teeth and leans his cheek lazily against his closed fist, his elbow digging into the wooden surface of the Slytherin long tables.

"The first years and some new transfer students, Professor McGonagall."

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, bellows as she stands regally in front of the wide-eyed first years clustered in a mighty throng near the entrance to the Great Hall. "The start of term banquet will begin shortly but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you must be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because while you are here, your House will be something like your family. You will have classes with the rest of your house, you will sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards," she continues. "While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, and any rule breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

"When I call your name, step up and take the seat so that you may be Sorted into your houses.."

Alphard leans closer and whispers, a fond smile appearing on his face. "It never gets old. See the looks on their faces when they look up? Can't even believe what their seeing."

Alec arches a brow, his eyes diligently scanning the haphazard line forming as he tunes out the list of names that were being alphabetically recited. "It's just magic."

Alphard jostles him, a little too roughly for his liking. Alec cranes his neck and glares balefully at his best friend, feeling the dull spark of irritation simmering in his gut dissipating when a delighted spark appears in his gaze. "Lighten up will you, sour grape? These are freshers. _Babies_. Go easy on them, yeah? It's not going to kill you if you lightened up every once in a while. I bet my left arm you would have had the same reaction."

Alec snorts. "You wish," he mutters.

"Sourgrape."

"Shut up."

"Simon Lewis!"

A skittish young adult hobbles forward and steps up to the empty seat, his shoulders hunched and his bespectacled expression frowning in nervousness. The Sorting hat descends on his crown and Gryffindor's magical artifact sputters to life, mimicking the thoughtful expression of a human.

"Hufflepuff!"

The eldest Lightwood winces at the sudden uproar of enthusiasm and cacophony that floods the Great Hall from the Hufflepuff tables. The Sorting Hat was removed from the new Hufflepuff's head, and the skittish young man practically runs to his new home, hastily grabbing another spot that has been created by one of the senior Hufflepuff students that took him under their wing.

"Magnus Bane!"

The chilling ice returns in his chest with a ruthless vengeance and settles over over his heart, slowing down the frantic gallop of his pulse into a state of chilling deathlessness. The immobilizing sensation courses through his veins and sends pulses of rippling shock and numbness across his body. His eyes instinctively find their way and he finds himself transfixed with _him_ , hungrily observing the Asian-American muggleborn's confident swagger as he calmly walks up to the empty seat and perches himself on top of the chair. A stern expression of focus has completely taken over that expressive face he can't seem to tear his eyes away from, with nary the slightest hint of fear or doubt. The chilling deathlessness reaches his mind, slowing down his perception of time. He thinks he can hear the fierce pounding of his own blood in between his ears.

The Sorting Hat alights on the man's crown and takes a moment to sink in, before it suddenly jerks to life again. Gryffindor's magical artifact twitches and the pointed end of the Sorting Hat tilts itself to the side, as if it was a human deeply pondering about something, on the brink of making a decision. The Sorting Hat twitches again and a scowl appears on its non-existent face, as if it was frustrated at being indecisive for this long.

"Difficult. Courageous, strong in heart, fiercely loyal and committed, and a prodigious appetite for knowledge," the Sorting Hat intones. "Shrewd, but not motivated for your own gain. Intelligent, but practical. Undyingly loyal and perceptive. But above all, an unrelenting dedication to standing true for one's self."

The man shuts his eyes, his lips moving, but Alec cannot find it in himself to hear the words that were being murmured under his breath over the sudden eruption of tense murmurs echoing across the Great Hall.

" _Gryffindor_!"

The present moment rushes in and collides with his senses, bringing with it the sinking feeling of a man breaking out of the pull of the tumultuous sea waves, desperate for air and land. The waves crashing over his head again, pulling him under the twilight depths. The cacophony in the Great Hall escalates to a blinding screech, the Gryffindor tables in a violent and primal uproar as another Lion was fiercely welcomed into the house of Godric Gryffindor.

The Sorting Hat was lifed from the Muggleborn's crown and the man calmly steps off the seat, his shoulders drawn back, before heading over to the Gryffindor tables with a confident spring in his steps. The sea of Gryffindor students quickly engulfed him and devoured him into their ranks, multiple students from the senior years enthusiastically clapping him over the shoulders with fierce and welcoming greetings. The younger ones scampered up to him and eagerly shook hands with the latest addition to their pride of lions, rubbing shoulders with him as they came and went. Another empty spot was created amongst their ranks and the man effortlessly slots himself into place, next to Izzy and Jace. A delightful smile transforms the man's face into a distracting mosaic as he nods to the Gryffindors that were greeting him around the table, the lines in the edges of his eyes becoming more prominent as his jaw drops and a musical laugh escapes his throat. His younger sister snorts and bows her head, her shoulders shaking as she laughs along, probably to one of the corny jokes made by one of her Gryffindor friends. A few seconds later, both of them seemed to have recovered enough, and diverted their attention to the plates in front of them.

"Let the feast begin!"

The tired basilisk in his chest twitches to life and he finds himself growing more cold at the unfamiliar searing heat that assaults his gut, curiously urging him to walk away from the Slytherin tables and lessening the distance between them. Alec ruthlessly silences the beast and shuts him away to the darkest recesses of his mind. The basilisk hisses and snaps at him, as if it was enraged at his callous disregard for its desires.

Alec perks up in detached interest when the newly sorted Gryffindor suddenly loses his cheerful demeanor in the middle of listening to the conversation around him, his face suddenly morphing into a bemused frown of contemplation, as if he suddenly became aware of something important. He raises his chin and those fascinating chestnut irises have started to diligently scan the ranks of students amongst the Great Hall, all of who were now digging into their meals with the carnal frenzy of a theropod deprived from a good piece of red meat. The arctic stillness from earlier resurfaces and engulfs him, and Alec remains still as he sits back, content to observe.

The man's desperate eyes land on him after a few moments, and Alec nearly jumps from his seat when the basilisk he jailed in the back of his mind suddenly rushes to the forefront of his senses, hissing venomously and rushing forward with a desperation that seems to be borne out out of a primal desire to be nearer to the other man. The arctic stillness and the peace that came with it, suddenly vanished. Alec recovered just in the nick of time, and opens his eyes again.

A flood of dread pricks his gut when his eyes fall on the sight of the Gryffindor's face contorted into a raw expression of physical pain, his eyes closed in a pinch of agony, his elegant hands clutching the sides of his temples, as if he was coincidentally assaulted with a migraine. An uproar of alerted concern floods the Gryffindor tables and Izzy breaks away from her conversation to tend to him, her expression becoming more concerned and alarmed as Magnus continues becoming unresponsive to her concerns. The man's expression of agony deepens and Alec can see how his jaw is tightening in an effort to keep him grounded in the present moment. The Gryffindor muggleborn removes a hand from his temples and lands with a limp on the table, his face still shuttered with lances of agony. Izzy reaches out to touch his shoulders and leans in to whisper comforting words to his ears, a desperate effort to get him to break free from the spears of physical pain of the migraine.

A deep pit of guilt digs its claws into his chest. The basilisk that escaped from its prison, suddenly flinches and withdraws into safety, reeking of the same guilt and remorse. Alec swallows back the desperate shout that almost exploded from the tip of his tongue. For some reason, for reasons unknown to him as of now, he is the direct cause of whatever happened between them. Whatever it was, it was an event borne from _something_.

_Go to the infirmary. Please. Go to the infirmary. I need to know you're going to be fine._

Slowly, the pained expression on the man's face dissipates, leaving behind only small remnants. The death grip on his temples lightens considerably, but it was evident from where Alec is sitting to know that the migraine hasn't fully receded. The tension between the man's shoulders slowly faded and he slumps into himself a little more, as if his body was suddenly drained from the events of today. In a few more minutes, he eventually makes an effort at opening his eyes, despite the obvious presence of a throbbing headache. The Gryffindor prefect walks over and starts exchanging words with the man's friends, before gently coaxing him from his seat. The Gryffindor shakily nods his consent and the prefect helps him to his feet, gently guiding him out of the Great Hall in a discreet manner.

The pit of despair grows.

Alec suddenly stands from his seat and retreats from the Slytherin tables, his robes fluttering as he practically runs after the Gryffindor who was now being directed to the Hospital Wing. A group of Slytherin heads suddenly perked up from their meals, eying him with interest as he races out of the Great Hall. In his preoccupation, he didn't notice the shocked expressions of his Gryffindor siblings and their friends watching him with alarmed faces, when the last of his presence fades from the Great Hall.

* * *

Alec stumbles into a halt as he reaches the entrance to the Hospital Wing, his pulse racing and lungs heaving like a man who just outran death. Madam Pomfrey suddenly lifts her head from her patient and regards him with a sharp, considering gaze, strong enough that it sends a slight tremor down his spine. Alec bows his head slightly and swallows down the pit of dread and apprehension clawing his chest. Their stare off continues for a few more heart-stopping seconds before he musters the courage to step forward into her domain, keeping his face blank of emotion. Madam Pomfrey breaks her gaze and returns her attention to her only patient of the night, speaking in hushed volumes and whispers.

"It's just a migraine, dear. Drink this and you should feel better," she reassures the Gryffindor currently laying back at one of the beds furthest from the entrance, his face still contorted with a pained expression.

"I don't know what happened. I'm sorry to be a burden like this," he wheezed, exhaling roughly when the toil of the migraine became more apparent.

"You are not at fault for getting sick, my boy," she reprimands. The Gryffindor only winces, perhaps deciding it was smarter to not say anything else.

Alec comes to a stop a few feet away from his bed, his shoulders drawn back in a tense line, his chest rising and falling shallowly as he tries to control his breathing. His puse rate jumps when the man emits one more pained grunt as he finished drinking the remedy. He looks away when Madam Pomfrey sears him with her penetrating gaze, and the trembling in his hand returns.

"Did you have something you need from me, Mr. Lightwood?" Madam Pomfrey asks tersely, the infamous defensiveness for her patients surfacing to target him. "Or perhaps, you have come here because you had a part in sending one of the Gryffindor students into my care today?"

"Madam Pomfrey --"

Alec swallows, before mustering what little bit of Slytherin courage he had to face the nurse. He interjected before Magnus could derail his reason for being here. "It was my fault, Madam Pomfrey. It was my fault that he suffered a migraine. I was -- it was a prank. We met on the train, you see. I -- well, I thought it would be a harmless little fun if I laced some of the food he ate with a small mixture that will set in hours later as a headache. A mere headache, was my intention. Not a full blown migraine. I'm -- I apologize. I'm terribly sorry."

A wide eyed, dumbstruck Gryffindor was the response he got for his lame deception.

Madam Pomfrey narrows her eyes at him, her aged gaze holding an infinite well of wisdom that comes with years of tending to patients. "Mr. Lightwood, there is no need to lie to me about what really happened. If both of you wish to keep it to yourselves, be my guest. But regardless, I suppose that I believe that you are sincere. Take care not to repeat it again, Mr. Lightwood. Or I shall have to report this to the Headmistress. I don't want to see any more mistreatment of Muggleborn students, especially coming from Slytherins like you."

A part of his chest clenches painfully at the accusation, even if it was unfair to Slytherin as a whole. "I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again."

"See to it that it doesn't, Mr. Lightwood," she reprimands firmly, before curtly nodding at them both and walking away, giving them both privacy.

Alec turns away from her retreating figure, the last of his Slytherin courage deserting him when he was finally subjected to the dissecting gaze of the Gryffindor laying in the medical bed before him. A spark of connection slithers down his spine when their gazes meet, and Alec exhales roughly in fearful anticipation when the Gryffindor stares at him in what appears to be awestruck wonder and curiosity. He swallows down the discomfort crawling up his throat, exhaling once more as he resolves to stand there, feeling idiotic by the second. The Gryffindor suddenly recovers his composure and clears his throat, blinking a little too fast as he worked his jaw to say something.

"You came all the way from the Great Hall, just to check on me?" he asks softly.

Alec straightens his posture and recovers his composure, fighting down the losing battle he has with this man. This baffling and mysterious force of a man. "It was my fault you got the migraine. Of course I wanted to see how you were doing."

A sly curve of his mouth, and Alec is immediately transfixed by the change in character. "Are you sure it wasn't anything else?"

 **Mine** , the basilisk suddenly hissed.

The man's eyes widened slightly, before furrowing his brows. He blinks again, as if he was really trying hard to keep himself grounded. "I bet your housemates are worried about you."

Alec crosses his arms. "No. I don't really care either way."

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a coward. For running. For hurting you._

The Gryffindor suddenly takes on a sympathetic expression, his eyes shining with insight and understanding. "It wasn't your fault, Alexander. I pushed you. I shouldn't have done that. _I'm_ sorry."

A choked laugh breaks free from his tongue. Alec shakes his head, disbelieving the words that he is hearing now. "Stop it. Just _stop_. Stop excusing what I did. I chose to do that to you. I didn't have a right to do that. So, stop excusing my faults. Please."

He needs to earn his way back.

"You don't have anything to prove to me, Alexander. You don't need to," he replies softly.

" _Please_ , let me make it up to you," the Slytherin rasps.

After a moment of hesitation, Magnus nods slowly. "Alright. If that's what you need."

He spends his first night back in Hogwarts looking after him, standing guard.


	3. The Last Will

Feeble echoes of hurried footsteps arrive in the Hospital Wing, rudely pulling him from the first night of rested sleep that he had since he left the Lightwood family estates. The muscles in his lower spine twitched and pulsed with dulled pain, strained from having to stay in a poor posture all night. He pushes himself back into the chair, correcting his posture as he rolls his shoulders to get rid of the rigid muscles. The echoes of footsteps grow louder, making him stiffen significantly in apprehension. When the familiar sight of Madam Pomfrey emerges from her workroom, she gives him a curt nod of acknowledgement.

"It is Saturday morning, Mr. Lightwood. I think it's best if you get back to your common room. Mr. Bane will be fine," she whispers, her tone significantly less reserved than the night before. "I doubt your back will thank you for sleeping in that chair all night."

Alec cranes his slightly stiff neck, eying the Gryffindor currently lying on his side, eyes closed and peacefully isolated from the noise of the waking world. The seventh-year transfer student was still in his house robes, though his ebony hair has lost most of its ordered arrangement from the previous day, having devolved into a chaotic mess. His sharp ears can pick out the quick puffs of air escaping his nose, a regular pattern of breathing indicating that the man was still in the realm of dreams. Alec blinks, before shaking his head to jerk himself out of the strange urge that almost rooted him to the spot.

"Thank you for looking after him," he whispers as he stands up from the chair.

"It was you who did it all, Mr. Lightwood," she replies. The Slytherin perks up and glances at her when he detects a mildly approving note in her words, his eyes widening slightly when he observes a small trace of a kind smile on her face. "I don't think Mr. Bane would have slept soundly as he does if you were not there."

Alec swallows back the lump in his throat and looks away, his eyes instinctively looking towards the exit of the infirmary. The neurotic itch returns and attacks his hands, bringing back with it the restlessness that has disturbed him since he has set foot on the castle grounds. Since he stepped off the Thestral carriage that he shared with his best friend, going back home, _here_ , it felt like walking into the midst of the Whomping Willow. The threat of looming retaliation and bullying haunted the very halls and rooms he ventured to, and it was not comforting to know that three members of his little brood faced the same level of threat within these walls. Alec would have liked to think that the people in here have become more understanding and tolerant of each other over the two decades since the Second War, but he doesn't seem able to find it in his heart of hearts the strength needed to continue thinking the better of others.

The act of trust never came easy to him. It was just simply too difficult. He was too _tired_ of giving himself away, committing himself to people that always wound up stabbing him in the back. He was too _tired_ of the blood politics and misunderstandings that would crop up. He was too _tired_ of fighting back against a world seemed hellbent on ostracising descendants of pureblood families and Slytherins, reviled and shunned for the sins of their parents.

If his siblings ever found out that he even mustered the motivation to make the cowardly act of calling _him_ a 'Mudblood', a slur that they always hated with a fierce passion, his little brood of three will turn on him and cut him out of their lives. Frankly, if it ever came to that point, Alec _knows_ for a fact it is the equivalent of earning a death sentence by way of the Dementor's Kiss. Not even words from any known language could possibly articulate the soul-rending agony he might feel at being cut away so deservingly from the only band of people he has ever cared about.

"I better get going," he replies simply, and he knows it is quite curt and direct in contrast to the more amiable nature of Madam Pomfrey's comment. He knows how rude he is being right now, but at this point, he really needs to retreat and find a secluded place where he could simply stop _feeling_ and start _thinking_ , the one thing he is great at.

"I will not be keeping you any longer, Mr. Lightwood. You are free to go," she says softly. "I will also take the responsibility of calling down the Gryffindor prefect to guide him to the common room. I bid you a good day."

Alec cranes his neck and casts one more reluctant glance back at the unconscious Gryffindor still sprawled on the medical bed. The frown lines were completely gone from his forehead and his elegant features seemed to shed a few years of age, turning it into a piece of work comparable to works of art crafted in marble. The man has an ethereal air about him, an unnerving sense of otherwordly elegance and austere beauty of the sort that seemed best suited to be observed and admired from a distance. There was an irrational fear of staining, and perhaps, even breaking the delicate work of marble before him.

Even as he stands and tries to muster the courage to walk away, the shrewd part of himself can no longer bear to deny the reality of his situation; the tortured beast that was his magical core was unfairly and _strongly_ attracted to the aura and essence that this man represented. The moment he lashed out and wrapped his magic around this man yesterday in a desperate excuse of gaining back control, something must have happened to the other man as well, even as he was facing the threat of being crushed underneath the wave of his raw power. Bane seemed to be highly sensitive to anything related to magical essences, seeing as he contracted a migraine at the very same instant that Alec felt a powerful response that came from the centre of his core.

What surprises him however, was the visceral and primal nature of _possessiveness_ that came from that powerful surge of magic. Whatever it was, it was apparently strong enough to reach out and have a strong effect to a target, despite it being an unconscious decision. So strong in fact that it was enough to nearly bring someone to their knees.

He has decided.

He doesn't want it. He doesn't _want any of it_.

This power, and the thought that he can have that much influence on things and people if he really pushed himself to excel in this area, it was never something he would ever want. He doesn't want it. He won't ever use it.

And the only way to stop using it, to stop it from running rampant and out of his control, was to avoid the source of it all.

It certainly sounds like a good plan.

But was it wise? Was it wise, at all, to continue evading a man who at this point may have already developed a certain level of interest in who he is and what he is? Was it wise to avoid the man that seemed to have an unusual knack at seeing through him?

For now, it was the only rational choice.

"Have a good day, Madam Pomfrey," he replies in a monotonous tone.

The Slytherin briskly walks away from the infirmary, his mind firmly set on going anywhere but near _that_ place. He wants to run away and hide.

And there was only one safe place to do that.

* * *

The parchment in his hands were lovingly preserved. It was a few months old and delivered by owl in the first week after he finished his sixth year in Hogwarts. When the letter arrived through the opened window in his own private study in the Lightwood estates, Alec was nearly overwhelmed by the cutting rawness of the grief that spurred forth from nothing. The dark vines of unresolved grief and melancholy wrapped around his chest and made it hard to breath. Even if it has been more than a decade since he last had the chance to bask in the simple pleasure of genuine company amongst his relatives, the grief of losing someone he deeply loved, particularly when he was still young and naive, never lost its ferocity and visceral quality.
    
    
      Dear Alexander,
    
    By the time you're reading this letter, you should have received it shortly before your eighteenth birthday. If you're reading this, then surely you must know that I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you, my little thunderbird, in ways and reasons you cannot begin to fathom. It is my only regret that I wasn't able to live long enough to see you grow into the strong and fierce man you have undoubtedly become. And I think your Uncle Newt would have thought the same of you. Based on his personal experiences from his time there at Hogwarts, I just wanted you to know that he and I would have been proud of you and would never have thought of you any less, regardless of what house was lucky enough to adopt you in their ranks. You might not have known of this at the time when you were still a child, but, it was always a fact that I have always thought of you as a son.
    
    I love you so much, my little thunderbird. I hope you remember that you will, and always will remain, the bravest and kindest young man I will ever know. I hope you remember that you are more than your family's history. I hope you know that you are capable of doing so much good for the world, despite everything else that is happening in your family. I hope you realize, out of all the people around you, that you have the greatest capacity for love and loyalty. So much so that you don't even know it yet. My dear godson, when things in your life start unraveling and start showing you just how much of a great and loving person you are, I plead that you embrace it and accept it. For it is who you are.
    
    I have left everything under your name, my little thunderbird. Everything we have. Past, present, and future. My family's lineage, fortunes, possessions, and history is in your capable hands. When the time has come and you are of age, I need you to go back to the Graves family estates in New York and claim your birthright. In my study, there is a hidden room behind my bookshelves that is tuned to respond specifically to your magical signature. When you activate it and gain entrance, you will know what to do. This room is ancient and has been a fixed point in our family history, and by nature, so is the brand of magic contained within it. In the end, if things proceed as planned, you will have all of the legal grounds and evidence that you need to claim your blood inheritance as a descendant of the Graves line in front of MACUSA.
    
    Wherever and whenever you are reading this letter, my dearest godson, it is imperative for you to know that you are loved. So loved, by your Uncle and I, your siblings, your friends, your future friends in Hogwarts, and whoever it is that you will decide to give your love and heart to. You are loved, so loved, and so cherished to many more people than you might dare to think. Do not lose heart. It is alright to mourn. It is alright to feel. But remember that there will come a time when mourning must stop, and living and loving must take its place. We are all bound to the circle of life and someday all living things must move on. There is always hope at the end of the tunnel. Hope is a good thing, the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. Remember this, my little thunderbird.
    
    After all, as a wise man once said, death is but the next great adventure.
    
    You are loved and cherished, my son.
    
    With love always,
    
    Percival Lionel Caradoc Graves
    
    

Why?

 _Why_?

Why now? Why not then?

Why can't the dead leave him alone?

Why must they haunt him? Continuing to pluck at the wounded heartstrings, the wounds that were still fresh and bleeding, the ones that have never healed from death?

Why must the rotten continue to live and the good continue to die?

 _Why_?

Why was he given this path, this life, this treacherous path to tread?

Oh, he knows why.

From birth, he was already marked. Marked by fate, by design, by forces beyond his understanding.

The signs were laid before him.

"Wand of elder, never prosper," he murmured absently to himself.

The parchment that was once in his hands, were laid to rest on the aged table of his isolated study carrel. The thin piece of parchment, this non-living thing, the only remaining connection he has with his recent godfather. The letter was charmed to be indestructable and remain in the same state as the day it was written. Everything still had traces of his godfather in it. The penmanship, the smell of the parchment, the brand of ink, the exact sharpness of the quill, the finesse in the cursive prose that he only knows his godfather can do.

The ease of imagination came so naturally to him. Alec could imagine, without a shadow of a doubt, the exact place and time when his Uncle wrote his letter. He sees a noble man, still the grieving widower after all these years, seated in that grand study that Alec loved so much as a child. His godfather seated regally, quill in hand, the words flowing smoothly out of his hand as the quill dances its own intricate dance across the parchment. Stoic, faithfull, and devoted to the last draw of his breath. A fond smile, maybe. Or even a sad sense of realization that came from the revelation that he was now close to coming near the end of his lifespan, and with it, spawning the sudden yearning to have just a few more years of life just to not miss out on a few more things.

Merlin, it was as if he never really left.

"I thought I might find you here," came a soft voice.

A cold wash of anger and fear clutches his throat. Alec deftly reaches out across the table and snatches away the beloved letter from potentially prying eyes. The cold swirl of anger coils around his chest and the cutting rawness of his grief continues to claw at his heart. He cranes his neck and pins a scalding glare to the one who dared interrupt his period of introspection. The scorching sensation of yesterday returns and he is instantly hit over the head with a dawning sense of dread and uncertainty. The Gryffindor from the Hospital Wing. The American muggleborn from Ilvermony.

He was standing in front of Alec's study carrel in all his ethereal glory, the edges of his eyes pinched with a touch of grief and, dare he say it, empathy. The lean man's Gryffindor robes were draped around his figure and his breath seemed to be following shallow staccato patterns, as if he came to the library running from the Hospital Wing. When he dares to claw through that gaze, a primal part of himself stirs to life and closes him off, effectively cutting away his vulnerabilities from the scrutiny of the world. Alec could slowly feel the dormant beast of his magic stirring to rude awareness, no doubt disturbed and feeling threatened by the unpredictable presence of the man before him. The tendrils of his magic twitch and vibrate like a nest of Runespoors, agitated and bound to retaliate at the slightest sign of trouble.

He doesn't know what is worse. The fresh grief cutting up his heart. Or the sheer sense of feeling violated, at inadvertently showing weakness to a potential threat.

"How did you find me?" he growled.

The Gryffindor retreated a step, swallowing back the fear that Alec could _smell_ reeking off his lean profile. His eyes were wide and vulnerable, but eventually, Alec feels a flicker of familiarity when he sees the same fierce spirit of determination that rises like a phoenix. The man furrows his brows in determination and looks him in the eye. "I - I felt that something was off. I woke up, and all of a sudden, it was like something heavy was blocking my breathing. It - it _felt_ angry, suffocating. Felt like something was dying. Something wanted to cry out, but it couldn't. I needed to find it. I _felt_ the need to find it. And, I think I did."

In Merlin's name, what has he done? What has he _done_?

Alec flared his nostrils and exhales shakily, swallowing back the rawness that threatens to cut his throat into pieces. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The Muggleborn purses his lips, his eyes now staring unflinchingly into his own. The primal, wounded part of himself _wonders_ if the cutting rawness of his own torment were that clear to the man before him. "I think you do, Alexander. I _felt_ it. I know it. And no amount of hiding or running away will change that," he says softly, but still, with a hint of steel.

The storm inside his heart is unleashed from the cage and lashes out with the ferocity and wildness of a basilisk that has been kept in captivity for too long. Tired of being domesticated, restrained, manipulated, and beat on. Tired of it all, it _lashes_ out, intent on devouring everything.

"You will _never know_ what it feels like! You will never know! You will _never_ know what it's like, because you have never had to!" Alec _howls_ , and the fresh wave of his grief comes out like a tsunami. Crimson has dominated his vision and before he knows it, Alec is on his two feet, looming over the smaller figure before him. A fierce stab of gratification hits his gut when the man flinches in surprise. "You don't know what it feels! To lose people! To have them die on you! You will never know! To have to lose the only people that ever really understood you!"

"You think I don't know what that feels like?" he says softly. Magnus grits his teeth, stepping forward after recovering from his earlier shock. "Why can't you see that I'm only trying to help?"

"What makes you think I wanted it in the first place?" he growls darkly. He slowly steps back from the smaller man before him, his chest stuttering as he finds it harder to breathe.

"Because you are hurting and you need help," Magnus replies gently, his gaze losing some of the initial fire. "Because it's not weak to feel emotions, Alexander. Because it's dangerous to leave these things unresolved. You are my friend, so please, let me help you."

Friend.

 _Friend_.

He was someone's _friend_.

This was just another lie.

"You're lying. You're _lying_ ," he growls back, but his voice cracks at the end, his words coming out in a strangled mess.

"I'm not lying, Alexander," the Gryffindor replies gently. "I'm sorry if you felt that I violated your privacy, but I'm not sorry that I found you. _Please_. Let me help."

No one can help him.

He bares his teeth, harsh patterns of breath transforming him into a frenzied animal backed into a corner. "Back off. _Get away from me_!"

"Alexander --"

Alec broke their eye contact and willed himself to look past the Gryffindor's tense shoulders. His attention darts to the labyrinth of desks and bookshelves in the library. He takes note of the absence of people, and the rational part of his mind, the one still untouched by the primal fear cutting across his being, was suddenly glad that no one seemed to be privy to the ruckus they were causing at one of the isolated parts of the herculean library. He can make it, make a run for it, if he just found a way to throw _him_ off. It was risky, but it was the only move he could make given the dire situation. He locks his attention on the muggleborn in front of him, who was now approaching him slowly, as he would approach an injured wild beast.

Alec exhales one last time and he feels his senses expanding, until the only sound he can make out was the fierce gallop of his pulse. The man thinks he _won_. He thinks he has won, just because Alec seemed to start giving out non-verbal signals that he was no longer feeling threatened. When all else points to the opposite.

With one last thunderous echo of his pulse, he sidesteps the outstretched hand that almost latched on to his Slytherin robes, and bolts past the opening offered to him by his foe's mistake. The sheer mass of his bulky frame collides roughly with the shoulder of the American Gryffindor. His primal instincts of survival resurfaced from the depths and guide him through the treacherous labyrinth of bookshelves. He darts through one section, winds around another, and repeats the basic strategy by injecting some element of randomness to his movements. Even through the roaring bellow of the blood flow between his ears, he could still make out the alarmed calls that were not far from his spot. All forms of rational thought has long escaped his notice, and the only dominating need reverberating through his mind is the need to _escape and survive_.

A ruthless amount of force suddenly collides with his left side, forcefully wrenching out an agonized roar from his mouth. The momentum from the impact carries him off the ground for a split second, making him collide painfully against the next set of tables. He feels himself falling on his back and a heavy weight settles on top of his chest, taking advantage of his inability to recover. A hot brand of agony breaks out over his head, and he whimpers as the pain shoots through his jaws. His whole world seemed to be spinning too fast in orbit, spinning too erratically on its axis.

" _Alexander!_ " the voice hisses sibilantly. "I'm not letting you continue this self-destructive spiral you seem so hellbent on pursuing!"

Alec opens his eyes and he sees _red_. The tendrils of magic wrapped around his core lash out and he feels a vindictive surge of power flowing through his veins. Sore muscles that were crying in agony, were suddenly transformed into beasts of burden. His muscles coiled like a python ready to strike, and when his quarry loosens their grip around his trapped wrists, he bares his teeth and releases a guttural growl that echoes throughout their space. He violently turns them both over, putting all of his momentum into one explosive burst of movement.

He pulls himself together and looms over his pinned quarry, bearing his weight down on his hands and arms to minimize the chances of his quarry to escape. The vulnerable ribcage below his hands were taking rapid series of shallow breaths, and he leans in closer to his quarry's face, enlarging himself to compensate for the weakness he feels inside. His quarry's irises were dilated, and only a thin ring of dark brown remaining at the outskirts. The pulse beneath his palms were galloping at a thunderous pace, like the jackrabbit who tried to run away.

_**I caught you. I caught you.** _

The pinned body below him, shivers.

"Alexander," his quarry whispers in a strangled tone.

_**Mine.** _

The man below him quirks a shaken smile, his chest still heaving. An instinctive growl escapes his throat when the man twitches his hand. His quarry darts his eyes back to him, swallowing. "Alexander, please let me up."

**_No. Mine._ **

His quarry swallows again, evidently starting to feel disturbed at his lack of rational responses. "Alec, let me up," he says quietly. "Please."

Merlin, why is he reacting like this?

He lowers his head and leans forward until the tip of his nose barely scrapes the Gryffindor's nose. He watches in fascinated silence as the last ring of dark brown in the irises fades away, revealing the ebony maw exposing every inch of raw vulnerability. The man below him has taken to completely freezing his own body from any kind of motion, as if he was an opposum caught in the paws of a sabretooth. A warning sensation prickles his spine and a cold wash of realization freezes his stomach.

"You can feel my thoughts, can't you," he intones, more of a statement than a question. "You have the capacity to read people's minds. And to some extent, feel their emotions."

A Legilimens and a possible empath?

The man's breath hitched. "It's - not that difficult to hear you. Your...your voice has a distinct tone and...turn to it. But it can be also overwhelming."

A primal sense of gratification nearly overhwlems him. At least he wasn't the only one. But there was one more thing to test.

"You like me, don't you? You just couldn't help yourself," Alec comments monotonously, his voice level and grounded, a wash of calm flooding him even as the man pinned below his bulk squirms and tries to quell his erratic breathing. His pulse slows to a glacial pace and an arctic sense of tranquility settles over him. "You can't keep yourself away. That explains why you always chase after me. Even when you knew what I was. What my family was. What might be said about me. You chased after me, but it wasn't to hunt. It was to be caught. You _wanted_ to be."

But why?

"I should say the same goes for you," an amused twitch of his mouth captivates the Slytherin, and he finds himself observing the minute changes in the Gryffindor's facial expressions as he struggled not to be overcome by the intensity of their situation. "You're...surprisingly unexpected."

"Then you should know that _us_? It will never be a thing. Even if you wanted it, craved it from the deepest pits of everything you are. We are not meant to be."

It was just reality. He was a _Lightwood_. He will never have anything of his own.


End file.
